


I need your kiss like the ocean needs a breeze

by crookedspoon



Series: Spicing up the Autumn 2017 [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, In Public, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, POV Jason Todd, POV Second Person, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 18:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12259719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: There are drawbacks to dating Dick Grayson. Several, in fact. It's not all sunny smiles and rainbows and financial security. (Though there are certainly those.) You would know, since you're doing it on the sly.





	I need your kiss like the ocean needs a breeze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).



> For "Public" and a bit of "Sthenolagnia" at Kinktober 2017, "Warmth" at inktober for writers, and "Confession under fire" for jaydickweek 2017.
> 
> This is my first time exploring this pairing so excuse me if I'm chewing through all the same beats everyone else has already analyzed to the smallest detail years ago.
> 
> Reeby, I'm happy I finally managed to write something for you, hooray. Hope you can enjoy!

You've noticed some change in the tabloids recently. Where before they'd displayed a penchant for introducing Bruce as 'Gotham's most eligible bachelor,' that particular epithet has now been handed over to Dick. Whoever decides these matters hasn't been doing their research thoroughly enough, but you're not about to correct them.

Since Bruce has been confirmed to be off the marriage market, articles have cropped up enumerating the various reasons why Gotham's bachelorettes ought to be setting their sights on the dashing Richard Grayson, son of former top bachelor Bruce Wayne, if they haven't already. His dashing good looks, by the way, are one of the main reasons. His trust fund is another.

Not that you'd disagree. Dick _is_ exceedingly handsome and money is nice to have.

But their portrayals are one-sided. There are drawbacks to dating Dick Grayson, too. Several, in fact. It's not all sunny smiles and rainbows and financial security. (Though there are certainly those.) You would know, since you're doing it on the sly.

You have your own list, of why Dick is not the perfect guy he's made out to be, because you like to keep it real. Some of the items, however, pertain only to you.

Item number one, for example: Officially, he's your brother, so you can't actually be seen dating him. Gotham's oh so pristine upper class would no longer want to be associated with Bruce if word got out you were seeing each other. Or at least they wouldn't want to openly support him.

As if some of them weren't the result of selective inbreeding.

Such bullshit. It's not like you're blood relatives, but sensibilities are notoriously fragile in some circles.

It's also not like you've grown up in the same house since you were little. You were fucking _thirteen_ when you joined Bruce, so there was no way in hell you could be brought to think of Dick as anything more than a guy who used to work with Bruce and occasionally poses for the cameras as the perfect son, so that Bruce's perfect billionaire philanthropist front can go on misdirecting the public.

Sometimes you wonder if it wouldn't have been easier if you could have thought of Dick as your brother. Perhaps then you wouldn't have been developing a crush the moment you laid eyes on him.

But you were young and stupid and your hormones were going haywire. Not even patrolling with Bruce helped you banish him from your mind for long. Training with him was the worst, but he never commented on the boners you were popping at inopportune moments. Part of you is glad you were too stubborn to turn down the embarrassment of sparring with him, because even if half your attention was taken up by the throbbing in your pants, you still learned a lot from him. (It wasn't at all that you stored away how sweat glistened on his forehead or on his arms and his collarbones or how his muscle shirt was clinging to the contours of his chest, or what his voice sounded like when dealing out blows or taking a hit or getting exhausted. It wasn't that you unpacked all that later in the privacy of your own room, biting your wrist to keep quiet, and imagined what it would be like if you could coax those sounds out of him in a slightly different context, up close and very personal.)

You learned about control, but also about secrecy.

When you were out with Bruce and wearing your costume, you were a mouthy little shit. You mouthed off at Dick too, but with him it wasn't bragging so much as it was an attempt at misguiding him. As long as you could hide your feelings from him, you won.

It wasn't until you died and came back that you revisited your old crush and made something of it. Time is a precious thing. It could run out so fast, as you learned, especially in your line of business.

You didn't exactly plan for it to happen, but then again, you didn't exactly plan to die either, so when do things ever go according to plan?

As much as you hate to admit it, it was the Replacement who sparked that particular conversation. Not by any sort of devious plan to draw you out, but simply by virtue of being alive and hogging Dick's attention.

You saw Dick in his Nightwing costume ruffling the boy's hair after a job well done, just as he used to do with you and you remembered the needles and fire his touch sent through your skin. The boy grinned up at Dick, excited and proud. Envy twisted your gut.

You waited just long enough for them to part ways, before you approached Dick. It was a dangerous endeavor, considering you weren't exactly on the side of the angels at the time.

"Do you call _him_ Little Wing now, too?" you asked from the opposite side of the rooftop.

Dick cycled through a lot of motion in the space of two seconds, from starting at being addressed to shifting into a battle stance to relaxing when he recognized your voice.

Part of you is flattered he still thinks you're safe. Another part of you thinks he is naive.

"As I recall, you hated that nickname." He crosses his arms in front of his chest and you drink in every move of muscle beneath his tightly fitting armor. It's the closest thing to naked you've seen him in since you no longer live at the manor and had the chance of running into him when he came fresh out of the shower.

Your voice is only a little strained when you say, "Only because it made me sound like a child."

"Which you were."

"Fair enough," you conceded. The wind whistles between you and plays with his hair. You're not sure if you spoke the next words out loud. "But I didn't hate that it was your nickname for me."

"What happened to you, Jason?" he asked, genuinely concerned, and it was enough to make you want to break, but you couldn't. Not after everything you went through to get here.

You shook your head. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." He gripped your shoulders tight through your leather jacket and the strength in his bruising fingers made you feel funny.

"Does it?" You returned the favor grip for grip, but the tension in his biceps made your insides weak.

Dick's face cracks behind his domino mask. "You were dead. I was at your funeral. How is it you're still alive?"

You don't know how it happened. Maybe it was the sincerity of his grief that emboldened you. Maybe it was your own impatience. All you know is that you said, "Maybe I came back for this."

And then you kissed him.

He went rigid for a moment and your jacket creaked as his fingers dug in harder.

You were sure he was going to push you away, to tell you that this was inappropriate, to even punch you maybe, but instead you felt the pads of his gauntlets against the shell of your ears and the skin of your neck as he curled his hand around it.

A needy sound escaped you and your own fingers stole into his hair. You cursed yourself for wearing gloves. This would certainly be the only kiss you'd ever get from him and you wanted to be able to feel him – the scratch of stubble against your thumb, the smoothness of his neck, the thick texture of his hair.

Everything happened too fast for you to even think about taking them off and winding his strands around your knuckles.

In the end, he did push you away, but not as abruptly as you would have imagined. Rather, he was gentle about it, as if trying not to spook you.

"Jason, we can't do this," he puffed against your lips, still holding on to you. "I'm not saying I don't want to, but. I can't. Not if you insist on killing people."

"So, what?" You stemmed your forearms against his chest, ready to fight, but he held your elbows in a firm grip. "You wanna rope me into promising I won't do it again, that it?"

"That's not what I'm after."

"Sure sounds like it to me."

"Okay, fine." He slid his palms up your arms to cup your head and make you look at him. "I want you to stop."

You bared your teeth at him. "What if I can't?"

"Listen up, idiot. Whatever's going on with you, I wanna be there for you. I wanna _be_ with you, but I can't do that if you insist on killing people."

"Hold up—you wanna what?"

"You heard me, Jason. Don't make me repeat myself."

"How can I be sure my mind wasn't playing tricks on me if you won't?"

"Promise me you won't kill again."

You grimaced. "That's not the one I wanted to hear again."

"But it's what I need to hear you say."

"I can't." You wrenched your head away and cast your glare across Gotham's rooftops. "They deserve it."

"That's not for you to decide."

"I don't see anyone else taking action."

"It's not _about_ taking action."

"Then what are we doing here? Huh? Tell me. Tell me the justice system isn't rigged and that people who deserve to rot in jail are walking free. I thought putting them behind bars was the reason we did all this."

"Jason."

"Was it all for nothing then? Me, dying? Did it change nothing?"

"Oh, Jason." He kissed you again, a heartfelt, desperate, apologetic press of lips against yours, and wound his arms around you. "I'm so sorry for what happened."

It took a while for you to work out your differences, but you were in for a good start. You never thought that Dick was actually serious about any of it.

* * *

Which brings you to item number two of why Dick makes such a lousy boyfriend: He's a goddamn flirt. 

It would be okay if he spent all his sauciness on you, but given your status as family, it's nothing he can do in public (see item number one).

Having to keep your relationship on the down low means posing as single. And as such, he's expected to butter up the ladies at Bruce's fundraisers – you both are, but you're not the heir to Wayne Enterprises, so there's not as much incentive to impress you by donating extra money to Bruce's charity of the month.

Dick readily picks up your slack, laughing and dancing with the heiresses and daughters of CEOs. Sometimes, and this rankles you the most, even inviting them for a private drink.

All for a worthy cause.

You understand that, but it still pisses you off he has to whore himself out like that.

You observe him as he leans down to whisper confidentially into a pretty girl's ear, as he dances with a recently widowed supporter, or when his hand brushes the back of a dapper young fellow who has been making eyes at Dick all night.

You do your part, which is essentially the same: charming the guests into loosening their purse strings, but you're nowhere near as natural at it as he is. You suspect they can smell the street rat on you, no matter how much of a polished exterior you present.

He adores attention, giving _and_ receiving it, and he makes everyone feel special. Sometimes you wonder if he's the same way with you. Pretending. Is there any difference?

You just don't know.

It doesn't feel that way when you're together. But out here, when there's people in the manor who are shallow and fake and he acts that way to reflect them, you cannot hold onto the private moments you have shared.

So when you see him approach the buffet, stacking his plate with a variety of Halloween-themed food items, you slink up to him, nonchalant, as if you happened to just want to pick up some grape-flavored eyeballs or some bat-shaped crackers.

Your hand brushes his and you link your pinky fingers for a moment. He squeezes it without looking at you, before he piles some pasta on his plate.

Sipping your dark red and iron-heavy drink, you lean your back against the table, as if you wanted to engage in casual conversation while still surveying the rest of the room. 

What you really want is to be bent over the smorgasbord and taken while every one of these prude, pruney asses watch you fall apart. But you settle for sneaking glances at him without anyone noticing. Whoever sees you would think you were just chatting. You know, like brothers would do.

"I'll make it up to you," he murmurs and you eye him askance. He's still not looking at you.

"Make what up to me?" you ask, as if you didn't already know. You just want to hear him say it.

He sighs. "Sweet-talking the ladies."

"No need."

"I know you're jealous, and I'm sorry."

"You don't owe me anything, okay?"

He tilts his head towards you for the first time that evening. "But this is my fault."

You round on him, a little more brash than you intended. "It's not your fault this world is so fucked up we can't be open about this."

He eyes you and bites his lip. If you didn't know any better you'd say it's shame that colors his features, but whether he is ashamed of you or something else, you cannot tell.

Good job on keeping it inconspicuous.

You're already anticipating tomorrow's headlines in the tabloids: _Forbidden romance – Wayne sons spotted lollygagging at seasonal gala._

You want this charade to stop, but not at the expense of everything Bruce has built. Not to mention that his buddies at the BPD probably wouldn't let Dick live this down if they found out.

It's hard sometimes, keeping this a secret. You're not even much of a sharer, but hiding it makes it feel wrong somehow and you don't want to think of your relationship like that.

Dick gives you a pained smile.

Before he can move off to charm some wide-eyed socialite, you grab his wrist and pull him toward you. It's going to look like he stumbled against you as you moved past him.

"Ten o'clock, my room," you say in passing, not looking back.

* * *

Item number three on your list is a difficult one: Dick is not much into sex. That confuses you, because he likes groping and making out as much as you do. But apparently, as far as you have been able to tell, Dick is not much one for getting off. He'll happily help you get there, but the moment you offer to do the same, he'll change the subject.

It's probably one of the many reasons why Roy and Kory left. They didn't want to feel like they were using him.

It might confuse you but you respect his choice, of course you do, but that doesn't mean you haven't wondered on occasion why he has a reputation of being a ladies' man, a heartthrob, and an experience in bed.

He says that most of the time, the girls who'd been propositioning him would be too drunk to do anything by the time they reach his quarters. And if they're not and there's no getting out of sex without offending them, he'd go down on them, because a little nicety goes a long way. Your family might need to call on them for support one day.

The good thing about not wanting sex, he says, is that you're not selfish about getting off. That way, you can focus all your attention on your partner. And if they're not used to that kind of consideration, as most of them aren't, they're going to leave with a very positive opinion of you.

You can't argue with that.

Still, it doesn't make him leaving his affections elsewhere any easier to bear. Even if it was before your time.

You hate that you're so insecure and need him to assure you all the way that yes, he does still like you, and no, he hasn't grown bored of you yet.

Which maybe comes out the most in item number four: Despite everything, he _loves_ teasing you.

For someone who's not into sex, he has a surprisingly dirty mouth. If he's in a particular mood, he'll whisper all the dirty things into your ear he'll never do to you, and you'll fall for them every time.

You meet at the top of the stairs even before you make it into your old room. Alfred has kept it in the same shape as it had been in when you moved out. It touches you weirdly to see the trophies and certificates you won during sports competitions once upon a time. It's a display of parental pride you'll never grow used to.

With Dick's hands on you, however, you quickly forget all about your embarrassment and shift your focus onto getting him naked.

You breathe a sigh of relief when you're both in your birthday suits because you like nothing more than Dick's skin against yours. You can live without having sex with him, but you could not live without touching him. And to your great delight, he thrives on touch as much as you do. Perhaps more so.

Undressing each other and feeling each other up, you fall into your nest of blankets that should be musty and abandoned but instead feels fresh and cared for, as if Alfred had changed the sheets only this morning.

Who knows? Maybe he had.

You don't think about whether Alfred knows. Instead, you drown in the strength of Dick's body, the feel of his scars, and the hisses and moans that comes out of his mouth.

God, he makes you so weak, no matter what he does, and you'll always be here, wanting more.

So when his hands grab hold of your ass, you have to stop this short.

"Shit, sorry," you groan and edge back toward the foot of the mattress. "I gotta use the bathroom for a moment. I can't—"

"Stay," Dick breathes and grabs your elbow before you can slink off. "If you need to get off, I wanna watch you."

His thumb brushes against your very hard length and your eyes flutter. You think that even if you could have stood on your own two legs, his magnetism would have kept you right where you are.

You're burning up, but you do him the favor. You jack off on top of him, panting into his mouth like a starving person. He doesn't leave you without guidance this time. He flicks his tongue into your mouth and grabs your ass tight. 

You'd love it if he'd fuck you, but so far you haven't been bold enough to ask. It sounds like a thing he wouldn't be into and you want to respect that. But God, you want him so bad.

When you grab your cock, you imagine it's his fingers curling around your length, his fingers that tease your skin away from the head, his fingers that rub your pre-come around the slit.

You don't think so much about him penetrating you anymore as you wish he would just touch you, and he does. His hand comes to rest on yours as it's pumping your erection, and the merest brush of his thumb against the underside of your cock is enough to make you come.

You're shuddering on top of him, hand flying across your arousal, cupping the head to catch your come.

Dick watches you with a smug grin on his stupid face as you buck into your palm, too sensitive to hold yourself back.

It must be great not to be subjected to your body's desire for someone else, but right this moment you couldn't think of anything better than falling right into Dick's arms after your release and maybe being cradled until you fell asleep.

"I was imagining this all day," Dick murmurs into your ear, "even as we were helping Alfred decorate. I thought, tonight Jaybird's gonna want some love, and I wasn't wrong, was I?"

You huff. "Is that why you've been spending all your time with Bruce's guests?"

"Why, yeah." He grins. "What would I have done if you'd jumped me? Couldn't very well take you right on the dancefloor."

"What if I told you that would have been exactly what I'd wanted you to do?"

Dick laughs. "I'd be flattered, but don't think I'd have obliged you."

"Yeah, didn't think you would have," you say and lean down for a kiss. "It takes a special brand of stupid to pull that off and I've gotta say, neither one of us is it."

"Oho, he no longer calls me stupid," he says and pokes your nose. "You must be really into me for that to have happened."

"You're jumping to conclusions." 

"Whatever, you still love me."

You let yourself drop onto your side, instead of dignifying that with an answer.

There's a box of tissues on your nightstand you'd noticed before but not really taken stock of. Alfred must have left him there and your face turns crimson as you wonder if he'd known what you'd be using it for. Perhaps; has there ever been anything that escaped the man?

After a perfunctory wipe-down, you gather Dick close, maneuvering your arms and knees around his.

It has become easier sleeping alone at night, but nothing compares to the warmth of your loved one leaning against you, safe and sound. This is your ideal, and you're going to protect that no matter the cost. Even if you have to deny yourself during the day by pretending you're not head over heels for this guy.

If you can have only a moment of comfort like this, perhaps the secrecy of the daylight hours are all worth it, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Bang" by Armchair Cynics.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Tumblr link for reblogging convenience [here](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/166019400425/i-need-your-kiss-like-the-ocean-needs-a-breeze). Come say hi, I could use a few more fandom friends <3


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